


Strange Hunger

by snagov



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Feelings Realization, Love, M/M, Pining, Possibly Unrequited Love, Unreliable Narrator, jonathan sims gives a statement, mid-season two
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-02
Updated: 2020-06-02
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:54:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24505765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snagov/pseuds/snagov
Summary: In the tunnels, Jonathan finds himself alone far too often with only his own thoughts.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 9
Kudos: 57





	Strange Hunger

Statement of Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, regarding - something else entirely. Statement given - oh, this isn’t the official record, does it matter?

It’s just … 

Well, it’s strange, isn’t it? Hunger? Seems so odd, the way we might crave certain things. Specific things. Doesn’t make sense. If it were merely a matter of emptiness, then anything should do. At least that’s the theory. But it doesn’t. Cravings don’t work like that. You could fill yourself up, tear your skin at the seams, burst out and over - and still your skull would lie there with its mouth open. 

Still hungry.

I’m getting ahead of myself. 

It was November. I don’t remember the exact day. Or time. Doesn’t matter. It all started in the kitchen. I had been at the sink, cutting open a melon, when a spider had moved across the counter. I hate spiders, so I admit I jumped. The knife slipped, cut my hand across the palm. Blood always takes its time, like the thunder following the lightning. I remember staring at my hand, the blank cut, waiting for the pain to start. For the blood to come. It _did_ , of course, and I put my palm against my mouth to suck it off. An old habit. We all do it, don’t we? 

That taste. That salt-heavy, metallic taste. The melon stared up at me, drops of blood on the pale orange flesh. The fruit turned my stomach but I ate it anyway. The blood. I couldn’t get _enough_ of the blood. After I ate every piece, licked the dried blood from my bandaged hand, it was gone. As if my body had never wanted it, never needed it, this strange hunger.

Why am I telling you this? That’s not the real story. But maybe it will help you - someone understand. 

This is ridiculous. I’m so tired. I’m not even sure why I’m recording this. Maybe just - in case something happens. 

Something. I don’t know what. 

I’ve been spending a lot of time down here lately. Alone. The quiet gives you too much space to be alone with your thoughts. Complicated thoughts. 

I don’t want Martin to come down here again. Last month, when we were … infested, he’d been separated. He doesn’t talk much about what he saw. I had to press him to give a statement. He’d been … reluctant to talk about the body. My predecessor, there with a bullet in her chest. So here I am, surrounded on either side by walls of black soil and darkness. I’m not brave. I hate the dark. The damp. The spiderwebs that catch in my hair, adding more greys to the lot. I hate it. I do. Yet, for some reason, I keep coming back. There’s some odd compulsion. Hunger. Yes. A strange hunger. 

He seems to worry about me. Martin does. I’m not sure why. What his reasons could be. I’m watching him. I try to keep a record, be cautious. But the problem with watching is that, well, you might notice things. Things you wouldn’t have otherwise.

There’s a jar of ashes on my desk. Dust, really. Martin gave it to me, trying to assure me that Jane Prentiss is well and truly dead. And yes, as I’ve said already, it does help. Somehow. But I don’t keep it for that. I keep it because it reminds me of him. Because he gave it to me. It’s foolish. I don’t know what he wants, what he means, if there’s more going on - but like coming down here, like the blood, there’s still this odd craving. 

I can’t ignore it. (I’ve never been good with cravings. Ask the cigarette smoke I still can’t get out of a few sweaters. The nicotine that once stained my skin.) It’s just - is it so wrong that when I’m surrounded by all this darkness, this crawling _wrongness_ , I just want to look at something beautiful for awhile? 

Maybe. Perhaps. Yes, it probably is wrong. (If I want it, it must be.) We’re nothing alike. Likely would have nothing to even _talk_ about outside of the Institute. Those awful jumpers of his. That crooked smile. His hair looks - very soft. His mouth too. The hunger in me knows that I’d like to kiss him once. Just once. 

It would all go very wrong. Maybe it’s like the blood again, drawn to my own ruin. He could be part of it. I don’t know. I don’t know anything yet. That’s why I’m down here. It’s not really about the tunnels. There are answers here. I know the death Gertrude faced and I do not want to meet it myself. So I look. And I listen. Doesn’t mean I don’t watch him too. Sometimes, though it’s probably just the light, I almost think I see him looking back. Though that doesn’t make sense. I’m not - much. Just black hair. I could stand to brush it. My chin is too pointed. Brows too thick. Nose too strong. And now - well, suffice to say that these scars are no one’s friend. 

I play it over and over again in my head. Not the worms. No, you would think that had been the worst moment. But it wasn’t. I remember looking back and trying to find him - to find Martin - and seeing only blackness. Nothingness and dirt. My heart dropped. 

I have never been so terrified. I’m not sure what that means. (I _hate_ not knowing. Sometimes I almost hate him too, for causing this unknowing. I want to know. It’s a need. Maybe I need too much. I don’t actually hate him, it would just - be easier.)

Martin, if you find this, then I am probably dead. I can’t imagine I’d let it … _loose_ anytime while I’m living. I don’t know what you might make of this. If you find it and I am not dead, just please return this recorder and pretend you never heard anything at all. I don’t know why I even feel compelled to record it. Just this need really. A craving. A compulsion to be heard. Maybe it will give some bit of closure, like most of the other statements I’ve taken. But it’s not the same, is it? The most terrifying thing about this … desire, this want, this hunger, is that it doesn’t feel supernatural at all.

No, it feels human. Very, very, very horrifically _human_.

End recording. 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[podfic] Strange Hunger](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25096420) by [Poiby reads (Poiby)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Poiby/pseuds/Poiby%20reads)




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